The Night Season by Chelsea Cain

Susan willed Archie. See me.
    She could feel the weight of Archie’s gun in his coat, like a fist. The wet concrete and metal was cold but Susan pressed the side of her face into it, trying to get her arm even lower. She could feel tears hot on her cheeks, or rain, or both.
    “He’s coming this way,” she heard someone say from above.
    “Lower me,” Carter said.
    Susan could hear them just behind her scrambling to hold on to his legs, the grunts as they dangled him off the edge. She couldn’t turn her head. Couldn’t see if he was low enough, if he could even reach them. Instead she concentrated on the flashlight. On, off. On, off. She had a task. She could do this right. She would not fuck this up.
    The lights were almost under her now, and she could see the back of Archie’s wet head.
    Carter started hollering. “Here, here. I’ve got you. Over here.”
    It happened fast. Carter lurched. He lurched so hard that Susan could feel the walkway shudder under her chest. The other soldiers struggled to hold on to him, and then everyone was there, pulling, shouting, groaning. Susan let the flashlight fall out of her hand into the river and grabbed on to someone, she didn’t even know who, pulling with all her strength.
    They got Carter up, and with him, Archie and the kid. A boy. A little boy. Carter sat on his haunches, shoulders heaving. Archie was on his side, sopped and visibly shivering. The boy, who appeared to be about eight, was nearly cyanotic. He wasn’t shivering. Susan knew that was a bad sign.
    The soldiers had to pry him out of Archie’s arms.
    Two of the soldiers started peeling off the boy’s wet clothes, a hooded sweatshirt, a long-sleeved shirt, jeans. He complied limply, eyes open, but unresponsive. As they tossed away his wet clothes, they wrapped him in their own coats. Susan crawled on her knees to Archie. The captain was next to him, struggling to pull a sodden wool sweater over Archie’s head. Archie was trying to help, but his fingers fumbled uselessly. Susan helped pull the sweater off.
    “You did it,” she said to him. “You got him.”
    She could hear sirens now, and shouting. She hadn’t noticed it until then, but the crowd had followed them onto the bridge. They parted in the middle to make way for the EMTs, who came running forward with rolling gurneys. Claire was with them, in the lead, showing them where to go. Somehow she got the safety gate open.
    Archie was still shaking badly. Susan and the captain unbuttoned his drenched shirt and got it off of him. He crossed his arms across his chest. He was reflexively hiding his scars, Susan thought, even though it was too dark for anyone to see them. The captain took off his own jacket and put it around Archie’s shoulders.
    Susan could hear Archie’s teeth chattering. She untied his sodden coat from her waist and draped it over his shoulders on top of the other.
    “Hey,” he said. “You didn’t lose it.”
    The EMTs were upon them. Black rain pants. Red jackets. Billed caps. There were four of them, and they moved quickly and quietly.
    Claire took charge, answering their questions. What happened? How long had they been in the water? Susan was glad they were talking to Claire. She didn’t think she could talk without crying.
    An EMT took the jackets off Archie and wrapped him in a Mylar survival blanket. It looked like it was made out of aluminum foil, like something an astronaut would sleep under. Archie tried to wave the EMT away. “Take care of the boy first,” he said. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but faltered, and the EMT took him by the shoulders and guided Archie back down. Susan put her arm around him, taking his weight as the EMT got him seated.
    The EMT sat on his heels and looked Archie in the eye, making sure he had his attention. “You’re hypothermic,” the EMT said. “We need to get you warm. No sudden movements. You move around, you send all that cold blood in your extremities to your heart. You want